


Talk Dirty To Me

by enthusiasticinformedfragging



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Dirty Talk, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tactile Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3804451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthusiasticinformedfragging/pseuds/enthusiasticinformedfragging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Swerve and Ultra Magnus failed at dirty talk and one time they ate each other out so neither would have to speak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk Dirty To Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mellorine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellorine/gifts).



Ultra Magnus could hold his entire aft in one hand. Frag, he could haul him right up into the air. They’d stuck to chaste, formulaic kisses—which were sweeter than borax, Swerve’s hand to Primus, and he loved every one—until Swerve had managed to forget to filter long enough to admit that, hey, he really wanted to make out and maybe get a little handsy—

And handsy, Primus throw him in the _Pit_ , handsy was literally and _exactly_ what he was getting. Ultra Magnus could part Swerve’s legs with a single finger and spread them to the point of aching with two.

Trapped with his back against Mags’ thumb—aft resting in one palm, legs spread, lubricant beading out from the transformation seams around cover guarding his interface array—while pulled almost flush against his chest, the hottest bot on the Lost Light mouthing the fingers of the hand Swerve had reached out to touch his face in disbelief, Swerve had hoped the sheer hotness of the situation would render him speechless.

“I had _no idea_ you could kiss like that, Mags—Ultra Magnus, I mean. Ultra Magnus, s **ir** —” The word trailed into static for a blessed second as Ultra Magnus’ fingers re-positioned, putting momentary pressure on the cover of his interface array. “I mean, I knew that you were good at pretty much everything, but I didn’t think you _kissed_ —I mean, we’ve kissed, we’ve totally kissed, best kisses ever—” He tried to arch up into the lips as they retreated, almost frantic. “—best kisses until _these_ kisses, I mean, these are definitely the best—” The fingers mercifully returned, but he had to shut up, or they’d be gone again in less than a klik, and _Primus_ he couldn’t stand it. Those lips around his fingers were better than anything the Well of All Sparks would ever have to offer. Where the Pit had Mags learned to kiss?

That was it! Kissing, kissing would shut him up. He pressed kisses against the heated armor of Magnus’ chest, desperate for friction _anywhere_ , since the panel that wanted the most was just getting exposed to open air and not getting any contact at all. His lips were almost as sensitive as his interfacing array when he got heated up.

“You are _so hot_. Like, literally hot but also figuratively hot.” He found himself pressing more words than kisses up against Mags’ chest. The high-powered engine rumbling under him—sending shivers up and down his spinal strut, vibrating against every kiss—made him feel giddy and heady and _needy_. “I could kiss you all day. All _week_.” Mags might take that literally. Scrap. “Uh, that’s really impractical, I know, I just—this is just really—”

His valve _ached_ —it wasn’t even getting hit by an open vent, it wasn’t getting _anything at all_ —but somehow that was better than having his own fingers knuckle-deep in there, better than grinding against his recharge slab. Ultra Magnus was kneading one of his shoulder tires and his whole frame _burned_.

“It’s not even fair that you’re so—” He couldn’t say _awesome_ , that was definitely the wrong word. “—I should really be shutting up, but _scrap_ , Mags—Ultra Magnus—that feels—”

There weren’t words for how it felt to have Ultra Magnus’ glossa dipping into the seams of his fingers, but apparently his vocal synthesizer hadn’t gotten that memo, so it approximated with words like ‘amazing’ and ‘like seriously wow’ and ‘really good’—much to Swerve’s humiliation.

“Shut me up already, please, I’m begging you.” He couldn’t even focus on the fact that Magnus’ fingers were trembling between his thighs. The fingers massaging his aft were even—wait. Fingers! _Fingers!_ “Stuff your fingers in my mouth!”

Magnus arched an optic ridge but obliged. _Primus_ , he had thick fingers—the sensory relays in Swerve’s mouth zinged with charge, eager for more contact, almost desperate to take the fingers all the way down into his intake. His fans overtaxed themselves and started clicking with need.

He couldn’t help it—he whined static around the fingers as Mags eased away from Swerve’s hand until his lips barely brushed the palm.

When Mags spoke, the words coursed through Swerve’s entire frame, vibrating and radiating out from the point of contact. “In truth, I find your chatter rather endearing.”

Swerve’s fans stalled out entirely as overload hit him.

***

Ultra Magnus steeled himself. They’d made out several times, and Swerve had expressed a lot of discomfort and shame about his tendency to chatter. He’d done his best to be reassuring, but he simply didn’t have the calming manner some other mechs possessed.

Swerve sagged with relief when the vocal inhibitor snapped into place, however, and Ultra Magnus decided that this was at least a decent compromise.

“Are your short-range comms active?”

Swerve hesitated. [[Can I flash my headlights for stop and turn off the rest of my comm suite? I’d rather you do the talking.]]

That would make it difficult to gather feedback, but the tentative hope in Swerve’s field was encouraging. Swerve would be a responsive partner with or without words.

“Yes, you may.”

Swerve relaxed immediately, falling to his knees at Ultra Magnus’ pedes. Small as he already was, this only exaggerated their height difference.

“May I—” Ultra Magnus reset his vocalizer. They’d already discussed boundaries; he already had a framework to work within. Swerve had even been kind enough to draw up a contract even though they didn’t plan to experiment with anything new. It had been meticulously written; Ultra Magnus had appreciated the attention to detail.

Though they might not be _planning_ to try anything new, it had certainly been informative. He had a much better idea of Swerve’s expectations and hopes.

And one such hope was apparently being cuffed and thrown on the berth. An unorthodox use of prisoner restraints, but not outside the guidelines in the Code…

He had extensive experience booking perps; he snapped the cuffs over Swerve’s wrists behind his back and hauled him up by the hood. “I intend to throw you on the berth now.”

It felt stilted and awkward to say, but Swerve _glowed_ , nodding so fast that Magnus thought he almost heard his brain module rattling. He tossed Swerve onto the berth—face-down, as Swerve’s notes had specified—and was rewarded with a needy hiss of static and the sound of cooling fans abruptly roaring to life.

It would be a lie to claim that the view was anything short of spectacular—Swerve’s legs were just barely parted, and he had to tamp down the immediate image of driving between them. _Yes_ , that was in the contract, but that—that was certainly better left for a later date.

Orders had been strongly encouraged. Ultra Magnus onlined his vocalizer. “Slide your knees forward and raise your hips.” What a horribly vague order. He decided to embellish. “I want to see right angles.”

That didn’t _seem_ like appropriate berth talk, but Swerve complied immediately, his field overflowing with arousal so intense that Ultra Magnus had to deny a ping from his interface array as it requested to come online.

Magnus examined Swerve’s posture, fully prepared to adjust him so that the angles were actually symmetrical—but he held himself at perfect right angles, pressing his helm against the wall to stabilize himself and still trembling with the effort.

He reached down automatically to support Swerve’s abdomen, and a full-body shudder rocked through the frame beneath his fingers. Right—he was supposed to be handling Swerve roughly. Well, that wasn’t _necessary_ —he could return to orders instead. Even muted, Swerve wouldn’t appreciate silence.

He onlined his voxcoder, but he couldn’t think of what to order Swerve to do. If they had planned to interface, he would be able to order Swerve around in ways that would adequately prepare him, but their only goal was the nebulous and vague ‘have a good time’ that was frustratingly inconcrete.

Stroking one servo absentmindedly from Swerve’s hood to aft—barely any movement at all with the Magnus armor on—he tried to think of a goal he could actually work toward. Swerve was capable of overloading without any direct stimulation to his interfacing array; that might be a good place to begin.

“Open your mouth.”

Swerve’s engine whined as his frame grew hotter, but he obeyed Magnus’ order immediately. Magnus adjusted the servo supporting Swerve’s abdomen so that his index finger could trace Swerve’s lips. It was far, _far_ too easy to imagine parting those lips with the tip of his spike. Easier still to look down at Swerve’s thick fingers—bound and displayed behind his back, almost offered up to Magnus—and imagine them easing into his valve.

The thought of both _simultaneously_ —a possibility clearly outlined in the contract—made his fans come roaring to life, impossible to manually override.

Apparently taking this as encouragement, Swerve began kissing the tip of Magnus’ finger, trying to take it further into his mouth. His glossa was so encouraging and _eager_ that Magnus _did_ push deeper.

Swerve’s visor went dark as arousal burned through his field. When Magnus nudged a second finger toward Swerve’s lips, it immediately joined the first. He didn’t understand how Swerve could take them so deep without gagging. The sensory relays at the juncture between his fingers heated with charge as Swerve’s glossa explored the transformation seams.

He dismissed two more requests from his interfacing equipment as it asked again to come online. His spike threatened to pressurize behind the closed panel.

When he tried to distract himself by petting Swerve again—helm to aft, helm to aft, how could a mech be so small and fill an entire room with his presence—Swerve’s engine kicked into a higher gear. The tremors jolted the sensory relays of his fingers, and Magnus feared that _he’d_ be the one overloading from tactile sensation if he didn’t take control of the situation.

He traced the perfect right angles of Swerve’s hips and knees, which meant running a finger along Swerve’s aft. It’d always been too low to the ground for him to appreciate it—

The interface cover snapped open beneath the brush of his finger, and he stilled. It would be so easy— _welcomed_ , even, judging by the steady drip of lubricant and Swerve’s heady field—to press his finger deeper, to fill Swerve from both ends without even onlining his interfacing array—

“Close your panel.”

Swerve vented hard and complied, although it seemed to be a struggle. Magnus went back to tracing the right angles, deeply appreciative of Swerve’s control. He’d locked his knees when they began trembling. Even so, he seemed to almost involuntarily press up into Magnus’ touch.

“Stay still.”

Clipped orders. Not enough chatter. Magnus wanted to listen to Swerve’s voice letting out a string of ridiculous and nonsensical praise, laced with static and—and emotion. Not dry and bland like his own voice. Swerve’s enthusiasm was the highlight of his otherwise monotonous day—surely these simple orders would be unsatisfactory.

Swerve had clapped him on the arm and said, _‘Don’t overthink it! You’ve got all those notes.’_ It was true. He _did_ have the notes.

And yet. “I am afraid that I don’t know how to proceed.” Primus, had his voice ever burned with static like this before? How embarrassing.

Affection welled up in Swerve’s field, and he _sucked_ on Magnus’ fingers in clear suggestion. He couldn’t keep himself from groaning.

“Are you insinuating what I think you’re insinuating?”

Swerve’s visor flashed with mischief, and the pressure building behind Ultra Magnus’ interface array cover became intolerable; his interfacing array onlined itself despite the manual override. The spike itself was proportional to the Magnus armor—although decorated with far more biolights and ridges than he’d felt were strictly necessary.

Swerve’s visor darkened with appreciation, however, and he found himself reassessing. The spike was the same blue as his chassis, but the biolights matched the fingers buried in Swerve’s mouth.

“Would you prefer—” Right, Swerve had disabled his entire comm suite. He’d be limited to yes or no questions. He gently withdrew the fingers from Swerve’s mouth and tipped his helm up to make optic contact. “Is this what you want?”

Swerve nodded immediately, visor locked onto Magnus’ face. His entire field radiated desire.

Knowing it would be most appropriate—given the contract and their discussions—to phrase the request as an order, Magnus reset his vocalizer.

“Make room.”

Swerve practically rolled sideways to let Magnus situate himself on the berth. He opted to sit on his calves in order to leave a generous amount of space for Swerve to work.

“Kneel.”

The terse orders seemed to be sufficient for Swerve; he snapped to attention at once, scrambling to obey even with his hands bound behind his back. He knelt with his lips parted mere micrometers from Magnus’ spike, venting hot air over the tip. It strained upwards of its own accord.

Swerve was _too_ obedient; he remained stock still even as his fans and engine whined. He’d have to say it. He’d have to give the order.

There was no way to phrase it that didn’t make him curl with embarrassment. He could _probably_ bring himself to force out the words if he kept it technical. “Apply oral stimulation.”

He didn’t have more than a split-second to cringe at his clinical word choice—Swerve’s lips were slick with oral lubricant and his entire field _sang_ as the spike slid deeper to sit against his intake. Magnus could barely vent the heat from his frame as Swerve adjusted his position and—and his throat could suddenly accommodate Magnus’ spike, _all_ of it, his lips flush against the Magnus armor, his tongue curling against the base of—

Ultra Magnus twisted his hands in the sheets, trying to ground himself against the flood of sensation. Swerve swallowed, working his intake and drawing Magnus’ attention to just how deep he’d been taken. The calipers of his valve clenched against nothing, and he looked again at the cuffed hands behind Swerve’s back.

Swerve rocked back and forth on his knees to get some motion going, and Magnus groaned. Not only would freed hands make it easier for him to support his own weight, but it would give him more freedom of movement.

Mind made up, Magnus reached out to deactivate the cuffs. Primus, the image Swerve smiling around his spike was going to get his fans cranking up for _weeks_.

Ah, curse it—his valve had seen the fingers and snapped back the cover that separated them. Or, at least, so it _felt_ —he wasn’t used to being unable to control his frame. Or the armor.

Swerve’s attention flickered to focus on the bared valve—which had decided that it needed far more lubricant than the activity should reasonably require—before returning to look up at Magnus’ face.

He _wanted_. He wanted the additional stimulation, wanted those expressive fingers inside him—

It would need to be another order. He braced himself. “If—if you are amenable—” No, no, it was supposed to be an order. “Manual stimulation to—” He couldn’t say _valve_ , he just—the word wouldn’t come out of his vocalizer. “—to primary interface array.” That wasn’t even a complete sentence! Charge rushed through his frame as Swerve swallowed again. “Apply manual stimulation to primary interface array.”

Swerve _beamed_ , and it was so gorgeous that Magnus almost offlined his optics to hold back the surge of arousal that accompanied the sight. Then those fingers nudged against the lips of his valve, and want became _need_. He made an involuntary, bereft sound as Swerve withdrew those fingers, and Swerve’s field reached out to reassure him with affection.

Also he did _something_ with his tongue that drove the embarrassment right out of Magnus’ mind, but before Magnus could analyze the sensation, the fingers returned, exploring the sensory nodes just within the valve, then _deeper_ —

He was supposed to be _saying_ something, anything—Swerve didn’t like silence, Swerve would want some words to latch onto—but _smelt him down for scrap, armor and all,_ he could not think of a single word to say.

***

Swerve couldn’t ask to use the muter every time they ‘faced—and once he’d figured out how _incredibly good_ Mags was at ‘facing, he’d been revved up almost constantly, so they were fragging twice a day most days, once in the armor and once out of it—but he had no idea what the Pit to say. Mags insisted that he liked Swerve’s chatter, but come _on_. Nobody liked Swerve’s chatter! And it was even worse in the berth, since apparently Mags went nonverbal once things got too heated.

So he did the best he could to memorize the sexier parts of the Autobot Code, hoping it’d be good enough to count as berth talk for Mags.

“You keep that up, and you’re gonna have me in violation of Section 28, Subsection 12, Par **agraph** —” His vocalizer clicked with static as Minimus did that _thing_ with his finger again—like he was beckoning. Like he was gonna melt Swerve right through the goddamn berth. “—Paragraph—” _Scrap_ , he couldn’t remember the paragraph number with Minimus dragging his finger over that node.

“If you’re referring to noise code violations, you are well within the decibel levels specified for private areas with standard soundproofing.” Minimus’ lips quirked as if deciding whether or not to smile. “And the paragraph you’re looking for is number three.”

Swerve bit back a laugh, and affection flooded his spark. Primus, Minimus was fraggin’ adorable. No two ways about it. He wanted to kiss that facial insignia a hundred thousand times over.

“Not gonna be if you—” He broke off into a shout as Minimus stroked a new node—one that apparently made him arch into the air and see stars. “That!” he rasped, his voice shot through with static. “Th **hhat**!”

Was Minimus smiling? Frag, he was _grinning_ —that—that was _beautiful_ —

“Now you’re approaching the decibel limit.”

“You’re aiding and ab **etting me, Primus**.” Swerve’s hands scrambled to anchor him against the sensation, digging into the sheets until he thought they’d tear.

“Infraction one.” Minimus punctuated the words with another _perfect_ dig of his fingers against that fragging _glorious_ node. “Accusing an officer of the law of perpetrating a crime.”

Swerve _did_ laugh at that—at the amusement in Minimus’ field, at the dry tone, at the breathtaking smile on his usually stern face—and Minimus squeezed the node between two fingers until laughter broke into gasping static.

“Infraction two.” Minimus found a new node to torment, one that made Swerve’s vocalizer short out with his next shout, one that brought him almost-but-not-quite to overload. “Referring to a commanding officer with something other than their designation.”

“I didn’t—” Swerve’s vocalizer clicked, and the fingers against the node were suddenly _frustratingly gentle_ , keeping him right at the brink of overload without pushing him over the edge. “I repent, Pr **imus** , I repent! Please for th **e love of** —please, pl **ease** —”

Minimus leaned in closer, fingers still teasing. “My designation is not _Primus_.”

“Yeah, more like Un **icron oh my god**.” His vents wheezed with the effort of flushing the heat from his frame. “Minimus, _please_.”

“Your punishment,” Minimus said, deliberately dragging out the words and _withdrawing his fingers_ , “will be satisfying me before receiving your own satisfaction.”

Swerve was never quoting the Code in berth again.

***

Swerve preferred having some sort of noise as a backdrop to their recreational activities whether or not he was muted, and—after one failed attempt at interfacing while the Empyrean Suite played over tinny speakers—Ultra Magnus decided that, to indulge his partner, he would have to fall back on his strengths.

In a word, research.

He’d confiscated a wide variety of erotic holovids from mechs over the millennia, although it’d never interested him enough to watch any. But since his own berth talk was stymied by a lack of knowledge, it seemed like the most logical proposition would be to gather examples and put them into practice.

Thus, he knocked at Swerve’s habsuite with a meticulously prepared glass of engex in one enormous servo and a processor full of carefully rehearsed lines.

Swerve opened the door, and Magnus spoke before he could lose his nerve. “Ahem. Did someone order a Frag on the Freight?” A distasteful name for a beverage, but it’d featured in quite a bit of the…literature…that he’d encountered.

Swerve’s jaw dropped open, but no sound came out.

Hoping that this was an _encouraging_ sign rather than an alarming one, Magnus continued. “I would advise not consuming it just yet, as clear mental faculties are required for consent.” He was taking a few liberties with the lines to make them appropriate for reality rather than fantasy, but without the context of the pornographic holovid, it seemed both abrupt and out of place. He cleared his throat and hurried to explain. “Because I intend to interface with you.”

Swerve’s face pinked, which was rather endearing, and he— _finally, thank Primus_ —ushered Magnus out of the hall and into his habsuite.

Suddenly unnerved by Swerve’s continued silence, Magnus hesitated just short of the berth. “Only if you are likewise interested in interfacing with me.” He hadn’t _quite_ inflected it as a question. He looked away from Swerve as he came back around to his initial gambit. “But if you are, I have a frag on the freight available for post-coital consumption.”

“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Swerve’s voice sounded more _giddy_ than aroused, but Magnus could accept that. “Mags, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I love you.”

That hadn’t been in the script. In fact, _love_ very seldom played any sort of role in the holovids. He didn’t have a suitable line to return it with!  “I…love you as well?”

“Did you actually mix me a Frag on the Freight?”

He had. It took all of his willpower to set the glass in Swerve’s outstretched hand. “I would advise not consuming it just yet, as clear mental faculties are required for consent.” There—back on the rehearsed track. He could do this. He had done the required research; he would be able to manage berth talk.

“One Frag on the Freight wouldn’t make me drunk, Mags. Besides, I could just activate my FIM chip if it bugged you that much. Can I try it?”

Magnus opened and closed his mouth, but words failed him as he took in Swerve’s wide grin. No plan of operations could extend with any certainty beyond the first contact with the main—well, in this case, the main _erotic_ force. So much for rehearsed lines. He at least managed to nod.

Swerve beamed and immediately took a sip of the drink. His expression went thoughtful. “Where’d you get the high-grade? This is good stuff, but it’s nothing I brewed.”

Ultra Magnus felt heat rise in his cheeks. “I may have, err, confiscated a bottle from Rodimus.”

Swerve looked down at the drink in awe. “You’re kidding me. But that’s not against the Code—right?”

“Well.” He shuffled awkwardly. “Driving under the influence is.”

“He was piloting while _overcharged_?”

“I believe the colloquial term for it is ‘star-sabered’—he kept mixing up Turbine and Doubletap and called everything _magic_.” Ultra Magnus had confiscated the bottle and threatened to have Megatron backhand his FIM chip into permanent gear if he didn’t sober himself up immediately.

“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Swerve sounded delighted. “Where’d you pick up the lines?”

“Well, you prefer berth talk, and I had no examples, so I—I researched.” He covered his face. “I apologize. My first attempt appears to have been a failure. Allow me to try another tactic?”

“By all means.” Swerve took another swig of the drink and sat forward on the edge of the berth, eagerness everywhere in his field.

Ultra Magnus steadied himself and reset his vocalizer as he made deliberate optic contact with Swerve. “Would you like a mustache ride?”

He did _not_ appreciate his carefully-made drink being sprayed everywhere, wasted in a _spit-take_ of all things.

***

Minimus enjoyed Swerve’s chatter, but Swerve got so nervous about talking that he couldn’t lie back and have a good time. Swerve loved Minimus’ attempts at orders—apply oral stimulation, _Primus_ —but Minimus had difficulty thinking of what to say to fill up space. Minimus had thoroughly enjoyed Swerve’s misuse of the Code, but until he could get it right—and he _couldn’t_ —it’d be overload denial every damn time. They never even _mentioned_ the disastrous attempt at ‘facing to the Empyrean Suite. And Minimus had given Swerve a _great_ ‘mustache ride’—but they’d both laughed themselves to tears when pornvid lines showed up in the berth ever since.

The next logical leap had been obvious—keep _both_ of their mouths occupied so they wouldn’t have to worry about what to say.

Mouthing one of Minimus’ more sensitive nodes in a way that made his thighs clamp down around Swerve’s helm, he had to wonder _why_ they hadn’t tried this _first_.

Minimus buried his nose in Swerve’s valve, his facial insignia pressing up against one of the nodes on the first ring beyond the lips, and only Minimus’ incredible strength kept Swerve’s hips steady instead of letting him buck up into the sensation. Swerve retaliated by grabbing Minimus’ aft and pressing closer.

“You taste better than high-grade,” he said—or tried to say. The vibrations must have carried to a few of the deeper nodes, though, since Minimus’ entire frame _shook_ against the sensation. “Oh, you like that, do you?”

Minimus pinged him over short-range comms. [[I have no idea what you’re saying, but keep saying it.]]

He’d used that ridiculously cute font full of right angles. Primus, the mech was too damn cute. “You’re adorable,” Swerve said, and Minimus ground down against his face, pressing into the sensation. He’d have green paint transfers all over his face. It felt incredible. “I love you, you know that?” He squeezed Minimus’ aft to encourage him to keep going. “I fraggin’ love you.”

Minimus said something next—and _Primus in the Pit_ , those baritone vibrations left him reeling. He held onto Minimus’ hips for dear life as _need_ burned through his frame. He couldn’t hear his fans through the vise-like grip of Minimus’ thighs, but he felt them choking as they tried and failed to keep up.

“Two can play at that game,” he said, mouthing the words directly against a node. “And only _one_ of us actually has an automotive engine to rev.”

Minimus’ hands probably left finger-shaped dents against Swerve’s aft. Swerve just revved harder, running his hands over Minimus’ frame until sparks _shnng_ ed between them. Hot air poured out of Minimus’ vents as his fans overtaxed themselves.

The retaliatory strike was Minimus releasing his grip on Swerve’s aft to force his legs apart— _hot, Primus, how could he be just as strong out of the armor as he was in it, it was unfairly hot_ —and work two thin, precise fingers into Swerve’s valve. He _beckoned_ , and Swerve tried to arch into the touch.

Minimus had his hips managed in a single servo, though—and his thighs remained clamped around Swerve’s helm. It was both too much sensation and not nearly enough.

“It’s not fair,” Swerve insisted, mouthing at another node as charge rushed through his frame. “You’re too goddamn sexy.” The mustache rubbed against a particularly sensitive node, and he shuddered, imagining it covered with his lubricant. Kissing the lubricant off. Biting Minimus’ lip and smoothing it over with his glossa. “I _love_ you.”

He hadn’t _meant_ to rev his engine at the thought, but apparently that—combined with a nip against Minimus’ valve that he’d immediately soothed with oral lubricant—was exactly what Minimus needed to get him over the edge.

Swerve loved the sensation of Minimus grinding against his face, using his thighs to keep Swerve exactly where he wanted him, taking control of his overload. What he loved almost as much was Minimus saying _something_ to drive vibrations through him and digging those exacting fingers into just the right node to tip him into his own overload.

Aftershocks crackled across their frames for several long kliks before either of them had the strength to move.

Surprisingly, Minimus was the first to speak. “What did you say, earlier?”

Swerve almost laughed, but his vents were already wheezing. “I said I loved you.”

“I suspected as much.” Minimus huffed—not quite a pant, not quite a laugh. Affection rolled through his field. “I said I love you, too.”


End file.
